


I Alone (or, Gay for Satan)

by Gunshy Fiction (Defiler_Wyrm)



Series: Bedroom Hymns [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Bad Sex, Bottom!Sam, Dream Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Gabriel being an Ass, Gay Bar, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Made For Each Other, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Sexuality, forked tongue, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/pseuds/Gunshy%20Fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam gets answers for two big questions but really doesn’t want them for some others, Lucifer is an old fart, and someone has been snooping. </p><p>Excerpt:<br/><i>Sam’s never been one to question his masculinity or sexuality; he leaves that to Dean. Others’ assumptions pose him no threat. The doubt curling through his gut and congealing into self-loathing has little to do with the fact that Lucifer’s wearing the skin of another man. That isn’t what makes this so </i>wrong<i>.</i></p><p>
  <i>It’s the fact that he’s letting it happen.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>It’s the fact that some part of him looks forward to it happening again.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>That’s it, isn’t it?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Alone (or, Gay for Satan)

He never really had a Big Gay Freakout with Lucifer. As much as Sam would like to tell himself it happened too quickly, that he just got wrapped up and carried away, that really wasn’t the case. It was a gradual transition. Seamless, if he’s honest with himself. So seamlessly that he forgot to question it. Seems like one moment he was doing all he could to keep distance between them in his haunted dreams, and the next he was waking up breathless with gooseflesh and aching thighs.

As much as he’d like to tell himself none of this counts because it’s happening in his head, that really isn’t the case, either. He goes about day after crushingly mundane day in Garber floating on a sense of detachment from reality, as if these are the dream and reality begins when his eyes close and the Devil stalks him across the room. “Keith” isn’t real. Lucifer is.

Sam’s never been one to question his masculinity or sexuality; he leaves that to Dean. Others’ assumptions pose him no threat. The doubt curling through his gut and congealing into self-loathing has little to do with the fact that Lucifer’s wearing the skin of another man. That isn’t what makes this so  _wrong_.

It’s the fact that he’s letting it happen.

It’s the fact that some part of him looks forward to it happening again.

That’s it, isn’t it? The point is it’s an  _archangel_  pinning him to the bed, making him gasp and whimper and squirm. It’s  _Satan_  kneeling between his legs and curling against his skin til his vision whites out. That kind of takes precedent in terms of Things To Freak Out About over the mechanics involved.

Doesn’t it?

It never seems to occur to him when it’s happening. He lets Lucifer wrestle him down and rut against or into him without lingering on the position he’s gotten himself into. These things are easier to think about in the daylight – and eventually Sam gets around to doing just that.

He can just hear Dean should he ever find out:  _So what, you’re gay now?_  But that isn’t it either. It isn’t just a switch that flips from “straight” to “gay”, Sam knows better than that. The thought or sight of a woman’s form –  the soft swell of breasts, bowed lips, a slim waist flaring into wide hips, the wet quaking heat of a pussy – doesn’t turn him on any less than it did before Lucifer started coming to him and he started coming for Lucifer. Still, once he actually considers it, there are a lot of questions he doesn’t know quite how to answer.

And that’s how he ends up spending part of his next night off locked in the bathroom of a club in Tulsa, bent over the sink with a stranger’s dick inside him.

What? He had to know.

It took three beers and six shots of tequila to get him here in the first place, and once he was done balking the differences started racking up in a hurry. Sam’s pretty sure he’s in danger of cracking his teeth from how tight he clenched his jaw through the hasty prep job, two rough fingers and a lot of lube, no matter how much the guy kept telling him to relax. The hard-on he’d managed to work up from the groping and grinding on the dance floor flags when the other man pushes inside – he’s just a little too busy trying to swallow what would have been some  _really_ embarrassing noises to be properly irritated with his own cock for failing him.

He catches sight of his face in the mirror as he gasps at the man bottoming out in him. Red as a beet. Jesus. That cock had sure looked average when the guy whipped it out but it feels goddamn enormous now that he’s getting fucked with it: too long, too thick, it doesn’t  _fit_  like…like Lucifer does.

The guy (did Sam ever get his name? probably not; probably for the best) pushes his shoulders down and wraps an arm around to stroke him back up again. Sam lets out a shaky, appreciative sigh and pushes back experimentally. “There we go,” he whispers, and his pick-up takes that as his cue to pull out the stops. The man’s panting something about his ass being  _tight, so fucking tight_  – belatedly he pauses to slather on more lube and goes right back to hammering Sam into the counter. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and finds himself thinking of blond hair and chilled skin.

It’s not terrible, he’ll give it that. There’s still some amount of rubbing on his prostate, and he takes over the task of jerking himself off through getting fucked; but it’s just not the same. This guy doesn’t touch him like Sam’s a holy relic. There are no cold lips between his shoulders. The hands pulling his hips back as Sam arches to take each stroke don’t slot against his bones like puzzle pieces falling into place. When the other man comes (faintly felt thanks to the condom, and well before Sam’s ready to do so) he feels more relief than satisfaction, and the lights most certainly neither flicker nor blow out.

An odd thing to note, he supposes, but it’s just one item on a pretty long list of Why I’m Not Trying This Again. The man pulls out, smacks Sam’s asscheek, and turns away to clean himself up with little more than a “Thanks, hot stuff” before he leaves. And Sam, still mostly-hard but almost too frustrated to finish jerking off, has two thoughts in quick succession.

The first is,  _Thank God that was quick_. The second is,  _He wasn’t anywhere near as good as Lucifer_.

So, he concludes, apparently he’s only gay for Satan. Yep. He’s going to Hell.

——

The hour drive back to his motel is probably one of the top ten most uncomfortable car trips he’s made in his life. A long, hot shower does little to make him feel better. He doesn’t bother letting himself finish sobering up. There’s a bottle of Jack there to help keep him from freaking out over how not him that was.

But he had to know.

Whiskey numbs the throbbing in his head and ass, lets him drift into the dark, long limbs splayed out at awkward angles. There’s a stretch of blessed nothing before he’s staring out the window of a room even more ramshackle than the one in which he fell asleep. There are fires on the horizon. Sirens down below. A chill in the air like it’s the dead of winter instead of fall.

“Sam.”

He’s dreaming again. He knows the second he hears that voice, and tries desperately to quash the traitorous surge of relief it brings. “I’m not saying yes,” he snaps automatically.

“Not tonight,” the Devil nods, sidling around into his field of vision. Sam wonders when this became a ritual of theirs.

There’s something off about this. The setting is new. Lucifer’s face is tense and pinched, shoulders stiff, eyes on the window rather than Sam, though he harbours no illusion that the Fallen angel isn’t aware of the surreptitious little glances Sam’s stealing his way. “Where are we? Don’t tell me – there’s something you want me to see.”

He’s kicking himself for his smartassed tone even as the words leave his mouth. Lucifer turns towards him bodily in slow motion and every degree makes Sam’s stomach drop a little lower. The blond stares at him, boring into him with patient blue eyes, until Sam finds himself blurting out “I had to know” just to break the silence.

Those eyes narrow. “That wasn’t yours to give away, Sam,” he growls. It takes the human so off-guard he’s left there blinking, eyebrows high, and doesn’t quite realise he’s being crowded backward until the third faltering step. To his credit he doesn’t bother asking what Lucifer means. His suspicions are confirmed anyway when the Devil continues, “You were made for  _me_.”

“Okay look,” Sam gulps as the backs of his knees hit a mattress and buckle (they always seem to at some point in these dreams, don’t they), “I get it, you’re angry, but you’re wrong. That was  _my choice_.”

But Lucifer doesn’t look angry. It would be easier if he looks furious instead of – this, whatever this is,  _pained_  if Sam didn’t know any better. Affronted. Hurt. Satan has no damned business looking like that.

“I don’t think you understand,” the archangel grates out, each word like a sharp chip of flint. He takes in the fear and defiance in his vessel’s eyes, maps the flex of his throat as he swallows, the quickened rise and fall of his chest. There’s no hesitation in the way he reaches out to press his hand over Sam’s heart and upward, fingertips digging in where a flare of ink carved into living skin lies hidden by the man’s shirt.

“You’re meant for me, Sam, no one else,” he admonishes, patient and chiding. “I know you don’t want to trust me, but  _you_  know you should.”

“Trust  _you_ ,” Sam repeats. His head tilts towards his shoulder and his brows rise together. Rather than take offense at his incredulity Lucifer huffs in amusement and kisses the crease of his forehead. It makes him shiver. Only part of it is from the cold.

Another kiss lands on his temple. “I’m the only one who’s never once lied to you, and never will.”

The Morning Star presses forward, and Sam falls back, and they fall together into bed just as they both knew they would.

——

This is how it’s meant to be.

If nothing else, having his ill-fated romp at the club fresh in his memory ( _Never again_ , Sam vows) provides a basis of comparison for just how perfect this really is.

He’s been kissed dizzy, nipped and licked from neck to foot, and given as good as he’s received. Sam’s fingers twist and card through short blond hair; he doesn’t push down on Lucifer’s head, doesn’t need to, instead just follows the slow bob and watches slack-jawed at the man ( _angel_ , he reminds himself,  _Devil_ ) going down on him. The pad of a thumb kneads circles over his ass, awaiting permission to slip inside. So patient. Always patient. Sam hates how much he loves it when Lucifer takes his time.

And he always takes his time.

Sooner or later he tilts his hips up and the thumb slides in. He whimpers a little around it – still sore, even in the dream – but it’s a gentle insistence where the nameless man in the club had been cursory at best. Sam takes and takes and Lucifer gives and gives. His hips grind up into the cool suction of the Devil’s mouth and down onto his rolling hand. He doesn’t have to speak a word when he’s relaxed enough for more. Lucifer knows.

A second thumb joins the first, spreading him, pushing his legs up and apart, and Sam’s head falls back against the mattress with a hollow cry scraping its way out of his throat. The surge of sensation makes his hips jitter upward. Through the haze he manages to think it’s a damned good thing angels apparently don’t have to worry about gag reflex. Lucifer keeps sucking, lips sealed around the root of Sam’s cock, working him with a thrashing tongue and flexing throat. His skin feels too small. If this keeps up he’s going to split open and fly apart. A glance down has hazel eyes meeting blue. They lock onto the dilated discs of each other’s pupils: Lucifer’s, burning with want and possession, Sam’s, softening in surrender sweet as prayer.

“Please,” he whispers before he can stop himself. “Please, Lucifer, I’m g– I need–”

The archangel only hums agreement and picks up the pace. Sam’s grip tightens on his hair and he growls approval. His ass clenches involuntarily around Lucifer’s thumbs but they knead the tension out again. The itching pressure under Sam’s skin sparks deep in his gut, clenching in the base of his spine, thrumming through his blood into his sac where the Devil’s stubble scratches at his skin. A low, lusty purr vibrates down his cock as Lucifer draws back til he’s sucking the head alone. Two tongue-tips flick in tandem across his slit (Sam will never,  _never_  get over the fact that it’s actually  _forked_ ), lapping up the clear fluid of his anticipation; and just when Sam swears he’s about to up and die if something doesn’t happen  _now_ Lucifer gulps him back down in one long slide, swallowing along the way like a python would its prey. For a moment Lucifer’s eyes flutter shut in pleasure.

And with that, Sam’s done, his self-control has left the building. He barks out a sharp note – pushing down with the hand fisted in Lucifer’s hair, finally, the other clutching the angel’s shoulder – and stares wide-eyed as his body seizes up in electrified pulses. One wave after another crashes over him, out of him. Lucifer takes everything Sam has to offer. Drinks him down like sacrificial wine. Watches his vessel like he’s drinking the human’s expressions too.

Finally he pulls back with a wet  _pop_  that really shouldn’t be funny. (Sam does NOT giggle. It’s just his breath hitching from the force of his orgasm. Honest.) Mindful not to overstimulate, Lucifer tongue-bathes the shaft, works down across the balls he’s left feeling empty and spectacularly tingly, further down where Sam’s gasp makes him grin like the cat that got the cream, and further still til his tongue is flickering in between the blunt nails of his thumbs and Sam’s spine comes right up off the bed.

Good GOD. It’s all Sam can do not to scream  _YES_  at the top of his lungs then and there, not  _the_  Yes but close e-fucking-nough to be a bad idea. He stares at the ceiling in shock. If he hadn’t just blown his load he’s certain he’d be hard enough to fuck a hole in concrete. “Lucifer,” he huffs, “what’re you–”

“You tensed back up,” the Devil chides with a wicked grin in his eyes and voice alike. “We’re not done here. Let me do this for you.” The humour fades, leaving a steady warmth that does uncomfortable things to Sam’s stomach. Fuck. Satan has no business looking at him like that, either.

But he doesn’t tell him no.

“Okay,” he breathes, reaching down to pet the soft spikes of Lucifer’s hair, “okay.” And Sam lies still for him – or tries, at least, and fails rather miserably but he doesn’t seem to mind the squirming. The thumbs shift so one hand slots against his perineum, fingertips stroking Sam’s balls, while that wicked tongue flickers and slithers into his ass. 

A thumb alone, of course, isn’t enough to reach the hard patch of his prostate, but it’s close enough Sam could scream in frustration. He needs more. It isn’t til Lucifer chuckles “Soon” that he realises he’s been speaking aloud, huffing out the words in whispers and hitching groans. Begging. Begging Lucifer to fuck him. He’s certain now that no human male could make him do the same.

When he whispers, hardly thinking, “It had to be you,” his eyes are pinched shut, and he misses the look of wide-eyed reverence the archangel casts up at him from down between his thighs.

“Yes,” Lucifer whispers back, as if he were the one consenting to let Sam chain him to a comet of fury and Grace. He draws out, careful and slow, and falls forward to cover his true vessel’s body with hands braced on either side of Sam’s head. “You need to understand,” he murmurs against Sam’s lips, tracing them with his tongue – then pauses, and corrects himself. “I need you to understand why I’m doing this.”

Sam’s eyebrows do that thing again; Lucifer can’t help but smirk and kiss the skin between them again. Both find themselves wondering, in their own way, if he’ll still make that same expression when Lucifer’s wearing his body. Lucifer reaches down to stroke a hand down his erection, leaving it slippery (this is a dream still, after all, and reality is malleable enough to him even if it weren’t). Sam inhales, cants his hips upward, and lets his breath out in a long, steady sigh as the Devil’s cock breaches him and slides home.

The man in Tulsa had tried to give Sam a moment to breathe between getting inside him and starting to move, to his credit, but not enough. Lucifer catches his mouth in a kiss that’s far too intimate, far too… _everything_  and simply waits for him to nod and urge him on. Someone’s talking. Lucifer’s talking. He should pay attention. (No, some too-reasonable part of him protests, he shouldn’t He shouldn’t be doing this at all. The rest of him doesn’t care.)

“Why do you think I’m so patient with you, Sam?” There’s no accusation in his tone, no admonishment. It takes Sam off-guard but it sounds like an honest question, so he treats it as one; but he doesn’t know, and admits as much. Why indeed.

He does venture, “Because you’re so sure I’ll say yes eventually,” but Lucifer rolls his eyes. Rolls his hips, too, and Sam whimpers, pressing back against him. They’re in motion now, groin chasing groin in a slow, steady dance.

“I am,” Lucifer allows, “but that isn’t why. Sam…Sam. It was always going to be you. I’ve known since I came into being.”

The length and breadth of him fit inside Sam’s body like this flesh was meant to be there all along. An out-stroke draws them almost wholly apart; the smooth glide back into his ass presses the crown of Lucifer’s cock against the human’s p-spot, making his breath falter and his nails dig into Lucifer’s shoulders. “There, right there,” he interrupts quietly. The Fallen one nods into the crook of Sam’s neck and changes his tempo just to rub against that spot til he feels the shaft trapped between their bellies twitch in interest. Then it’s back to unhurried grinding, spine flexing, now and then reaching up to stroke the hard-muscled thighs wrapped around his waist on either side.

“Every time you prayed, every time you called out to God in… _gratitude_ , or for help, or in pleasure, or to keep your family safe, I heard you. Every time your anger took you over, I felt you. Every time you hurt, I threw myself at the walls of my Cage, because I couldn’t be there.  _He_  kept me from you, Sam, but you came for me…just as I always knew you would.”

There’s a flare of something like horror, something like rage, setting Sam’s teeth on edge. If that’s true…if God hasn’t been listening to his prayers all his fucking life, but  _Satan_  has…he’s the damnedest of the damned, isn’t he. But that soft voice carries over his stifled sob before he can drop from bliss into despair.

“I’ve waited for you,” he continues, eyes fixed on Sam with an intensity that makes him squirm more than the sex itself, “for so long already. I was waiting in the cold, black nothing in the deepest part of Hell before your kind figured out how to plant seeds in soil. I walked the Earth from the birth of Mankind to  _your_  fall from grace, waiting for you. Before that, I sang God’s praises without hesitation or rest, loving him first and best, but waiting for you.”

Sam stops moving altogether; the slackness of his body allows Lucifer to move him as he pleases, and he can’t be bothered to care about the implications of that. His throat’s tight, and he doesn’t want to think about the  _why_  there, either. Instead he stares up at the endless, ageless, ancient blue of the Lightbringer’s eyes, marginally aware of the cold fingers tracing his lips as they hang open. He mouths the Devil’s name but there’s not enough breath to even make it a whisper.

(A tiny, impudent, possibly suicidal portion of Winchester’s brain protests that the Devil talks way too much during sex.)

They’re moving against each other faster now, and in spite of the momentary drop in his stomach Sam’s hard again, growling minutely in pleasure at both the perfect fullness in his ass and the friction of his cock sliding against Lucifer’s belly. “I would’ve thought,” he finally manages to breathe, “all that waiting’d only make you _less_  patient once you got out again. Not that I’m complaining,” he adds in a hurry.

The archangel gives him an indulgent smile and a hard grind, rolling figure-eights with his hips until Sam makes the sort of desperate noise he wanted to hear. “I know you’re not.” He leans in to crush their mouths together again, all cold, desperate fury, and for a long while he’s silent save to call Sam’s name into the dark as they fuck.

That afternoon he’d been impatient for the sex to end. Tonight, it feels like he could just call in sick to the Apocalypse and stay here with the Devil’s breath freezing the sweat on his skin and mattress springs digging into his back. He’s close to coming again. From the strains and jumps Lucifer’s cock makes inside him unrelated to his thrusts he’s guessing the blond is close, too. They’ll come together again, he’s pretty sure. Their bodies sync up that way more often than not.

Gentle fingertips trace Sam’s cheekbones and jaw, contrasted to the deep, sharp thrusts he’s bucking back to meet in earnest. “Aeons, Sam. I’m older than the sun,” Lucifer whispers, “and I’ve been waiting for you all my life. I think by now I can afford to wait a little while more.”

A strangled sound comes out of Sam’s throat unbidden. He doesn’t want to hear that. Fuck, he doesn’t want to think about it, his pulse stutters and Lucifer’s kissing him again and no damn it Sam Winchester does  _not_  cry his way through sex, not gonna happen. He focuses on the now, on the pressure that’s returned to his balls, the aching, urgent need to climax.

The thrusts have changed again: Lucifer slides his cock in fast, pushes for a split second once they’re flush, and completes the roll backward, only to drive in again. It’s a hard-hammering pace that takes Sam a minute or three to identify, but when he does, he’s overwhelmed all over again to the point he can only groan.

Lucifer’s fucking him in time to his heartbeat.

A hand snakes down between them to grip Sam’s hard-on tight, squeezing just where he likes. Perfect as always. There’s an edge of pressure in Lucifer’s voice now, and a resonance like feedback that makes the walls around them tremble as much as the human’s thighs. “Come for me, Sam, come for me again.”

It’s too much. He nods, distantly registering that the gesture has long strands of his hair plastered to his face, and writhes beneath the archangel, scratching angry red marks into his shoulder blades where he imagines six wings to be. It’s about the only part of his body that ever seems warm, no matter how much heat he steals from Sam this way. The room tilts around him and he’s coming again, eyes tight shut so he doesn’t have to see the hungry look hovering between avarice and worship in the other man’s eyes – coming hard and fast in wet spatters against both their chests, and Lucifer isn’t far behind with a rumbling shout that rattles the window loose and shorts out the lights.

It seems like a lifetime before he can think or move again. By then they’ve slotted their bodies together another way, archangel curled around his true vessel, protective and possessive all at once. They lie silent in the dark for a long while more.

Sam’s the one to break the silence. “What if I don’t say yes? What’ll you do then?”

“I never bothered considering,” Lucifer shrugs.

“Yeah well.” Sam sits up and stretches. As much as he’d like to pretend he doesn’t relish the soreness warming his body this time, that really isn’t the case. “Maybe you should. ‘Cause it’s not gonna happen.”

He’s not sure why he’s saying it so gently. The list of things he doesn’t want to think about is only getting longer.

The Morning Star’s smile is bright as his namesake, even as small and bittersweet as it is. He reaches up to brush hair out of Sam’s eyes and stroke the backs of his knuckles down his vessel’s face. If Sam leans into the touch and lets his eyes slide shut, well, he’ll chalk it up to being exhausted and caught up in the afterglow.

“Not tonight,” the Fallen angel murmurs back, and as always, the rest remains unspoken between them:  _but you will, because it has to be you_.

The satisfaction singing in his veins says he may be right.

——

The next few days pass without incident. Well. Almost.

His work week is just as frustrating and boring and mind-numbing as usual – no more and no less – complete with pretending not to react to newscasts of “natural” disasters and dodging a coworker’s too-probing questions. Nothing he can’t handle. Everything’s average up til he gets back to his motel room at the wee hour of crap-o’-clock on a Tuesday morning and finds something on his bed that wasn’t there when he left.

Instinct kicks in immediately. Sam doesn’t bother looking to see what it even is yet beyond “not a bomb”, instead sweeping the room for traces of break-in – for hex bags or sulphur or preternatural decay, for tripwires or tracers or taps, for any of a hundred signs that someone or something has been there and left some manner of trap.

Nothing.

Well, okay. Maybe the manager let himself in to drop it off. That still doesn’t explain what it is or where it came from, though, so Sam keeps his guard up for now.

Still wary, he stalks back to the bed to see what the Hell this thing is. Turns out it’s three things. The first thing to catch his eye is the bag of Skittles, which makes his nose wrinkle in confusion. The second is a note written on his own motel’s stationary in the most  _obnoxious_  handwriting he’s seen in his  _life_  – seriously he can’t even fathom how anyone could manage to exude an aura of palpable abrasiveness via penmanship alone. It’s written in  _glitter pen_  for fuck’s sake. It’s awe-inspiring in a horrible, horrible way, made worse by the message itself:

 

> CONGRATULATIONS ON  
>  COMING OUT!!!

…Sam can only gawk.

“Right,” he snorts, shaking his head, “so they got the wrong room.” He’ll have to take it back to the front desk. That settled, he turns his attention to the last item. It’s a white T-shirt, neatly folded. No harm in looking, right? Picked up and unfurled, its silk-screening depicts a man standing back-to-back, arm-in-arm with a caricature Devil in a big triangle under a greyscale rainbow, with the words “GAY FOR SATAN” along the bottom.

He drops it like a venomous snake and squawks in alarm, eyes saucer-wide. A panicked minute later it clicks. There’s only one person, or one being rather– he doesn’t know  _how_  but–

Sam slaps a hand to his face and drags it down. The laugh he shudders out is high and helpless. In his mind’s eye he sees eyes the colour of gold and brass and caramel narrowed in mirth.

“Shit,” he laughs, rubbing his cheek. “You son of a bitch.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short little PWP scene and LOOK THAT HAPPENED. The two major inspirations for this (vastly different as they may be) are [Frank Sinatra’s “It Had to Be You”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9rXk7imc920) and [Live’s “I Alone”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNrQOUtXYOo), the latter of which gives the story its name.
> 
> Due to timing, at this point Sam still only knows Gabriel as the Trickster.
> 
> Finally…[THIS SHIRT IS REAL AND I ~~WANT ONE~~ GOT ONE](http://www.breaksof10.com/2010/04/mutiny-are-gay-for-satan/). 8D


End file.
